


The Microwave Incident

by obfuscatress



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015)
Genre: Multi, Q does not have a microwave fetish but it is a close call, a child safety lock isn’t enough to stop James Bond from destroying EVERYTHING, domestic crack through and through, i have no excuse for writing this besides being complete trash, unintentional electronics abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 15:25:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5933272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obfuscatress/pseuds/obfuscatress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q finds the microwave of his dreams, James Bond is unacquainted with modern day kitchen appliances, and Madeleine Swann has never been so happy they keep a fire blanket on the wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Microwave Incident

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at writing crack. Please be gentle, I come from a realm of angst and bad humor.

When Q first sees it passing by a shop window, his breath stutters from more than a combination of cold air and asthma. “Madeleine, hold on,” he says, heels slipping through trodden, black snow. The crowd pushes on them from two directions as they come to halt, a shoulder ramming into him here and an elbow there.

Q drags her all the way up to the window where the spotlights reflect onto his face from the microwave’s lean silver frame. He’s close enough for his breath to mist on the glass - perched on the balls of his feet like a giddy child in front of a toy store. “What are we looking at?” Madeleine asks him, “Or should I ask what am _I_ supposed to look at?”

“This is the kind of kitchen appliance I’ve been looking for since I started coding,” he confesses to the glass rather than her and with such conviction, Madeleine guesses the dazed look in his eyes means he’s already imagining it on their kitchen counter. She looks at the unassuming microwave, made no wiser by the blurb attached to its stand, though the price strikes her as preposterous.

“Two hundred pounds for a microwave?”

“This isn’t just any microwave,” Q says, turning to look at her now, “This is a stainless steel Sharp K982STM combination microwave, a 1000W power output, incorporated grill, and _so much more_.”

Madeleine offers an apologetic look when Q realises the powers of the appliance are lost on her. His enthusiasm reminds her of the way James looks at his Aston Martin after a long trip: a mix of longing and bittersweet exhilaration at being reunited with a loved object, even if the sentiment is lost on others. “Well, shall we go take a look?”

“Do you mind?” Q throws a pointed look at the bags of Christmas shopping hanging between them.

Madeleine scoffs and shoves him through the door, bags catching in the frame. They’re immediately ambushed by a young clerk with a nervous tick of clicking a pen, and she resigns herself to lingering by the shelf of batteries while Q launches into an enthusiastic conversation about grilling chicken. She reckons any trinket that makes him this happy before he’s even taken it apart is worth having the blood flow in her fingers temporarily cut off by an overload of plastic bags.

* * *

Q spends the next week taking his shiny new toy apart on the coffee table and reassembling it, much to the dismay of the cats that Madeleine shuts in the bedroom for their own safety. She curses with gusto when she steps on a stray screw and complains when she can’t see the telly over the top of Q’s head, but overall she prefers seeing him frowning at the skeleton of a kitchen appliance over coming home with eye bags like massive bruises.

They end up watching potato wedges roast and Madeleine has never seen Q so excited, let alone over a plate of rotating potatoes. She ends up having to admit the microwave tops the oven and they move it into the honourable kitchen appliance spot in the corner.

* * *

 

James comes home three days later, just in time for Christmas with a bag of presents and a triumphant grin plastered on his face.

“Your idea of timing,” Madeleine grumbles because it’s two am and, unlike Q, some people in this household are quite content with a regular sleep schedule.

James crawls into bed, a sheepish dog come to its master, and burrows his cool face into the crook of her neck.

“ _Branleur_ !” she hisses, startling Tesla off the bed. James laughs at her when she instinctively rises to apologise to the cat and Madeleine takes the liberty to kick him in the shin. _It’s a lost cause_ , Madeleine thinks as she falls back into the pillows with a groan. “Why do you have to agonise those who rest in peace? It’s going to take _days_ of duck pate to regain his trust.” She blinks at the ceiling with her mind sobering from sleep. There’s no point dozing off now; her sleep will be restless and filled with nightmares of the past.

James brushes her hair off her shoulders in the dark and places a tentative kiss on her shoulder. He’s always careful when he comes back, touch starved and tired, but always afraid he’ll do something reckless. It isn’t enough to drive away Madeleine’s annoyance at being woken, even as he murmurs incoherent apologies into her skin.  “Couldn’t you harass Q? He’s still up,” she whispers.

“He’s busy tinkering in the kitchen.”

He says it so nonchalantly, Madeleine thinks he mustn’t have seen it yet. “Oh, didn’t he show it to you?”

“What?”

“The microwave. Sharp K98-something combination microwave, Q saw it in a store window last week. It’s marvellous. Evenly heated potato mash, pizza doesn’t go soggy, and we even roasted a small chicken in it.”

James looks at her like she’s lost her mind. “You know you can roast a chicken in the oven we payed a fortune for?”

“It isn’t the same,” she insists and then frowns, because that isn’t what she means, “Or, it is, but that isn’t the point. The oven is a good oven, but it doesn’t double as a grill and a microwave.”

It doesn’t seem to convince James, who resumes working his mouth on her neck. All Madeleine can think of are the meatballs her and Q cooked the other night and she wonders whether this is how Q feels every time he brings home a new for it’s technical beauty to be lost on her and James.

“James, I’m telling you it’s extraordinary.”

He draws away from her and drops down into the pillows. “Is there _anyone_ in this household not obsessed with the bloody microwave?”

“Perhaps you’ll find solace in Curie,” she suggests, “She didn’t seem too taken by it.”

“Fantastic. Doomed to the love of the devil incarnate because I’ve been outdone by an electric heating box.”

“You’re only saying that because you haven’t tried it yet, mon chéri, ” Madeleine says, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “And Curie would be nicer to you, if you didn’t insist on sitting on her side of the sofa.”

James huffs and Madeleine presses another placating kiss on him.

* * *

James is not convinced by the box in the corner. He regards it with equal parts suspicion and indifference as he makes his morning coffee with the machine Q delegated to the counter by the sink. The microwave is all Madeleine and Q talk about anymore; last night he snuck into bed to have them discuss how lasagna layers would heat and the night before he’d watched Q cook an entire, admittedly passable dinner in the thing. Holding a plate of leftover pancakes, he considers giving it a shot.

He opens the door, easy enough, and sets the plate into the microwave. He’s seen them in use under Moneypenny’s dextrous operation, but he’s never used one himself. _Simple heating_ , he tells himself as he twists the wheel on the front. _How long is one supposed to heat pancakes?_

James takes his chance with a minute and starts the microwave. His breakfast makes one turn unharmed and then another, a sense of satisfaction creeping on him now. Then, an arc of electricity like a tiny lightning zaps the fork, and James yelps in surprise at the sound. From the other room he hears clattering - a cat dashing out of harm’s way - and he’s got a bad feeling about this. The fork zaps again. This time the back right half of the microwave lights on fire to his horror.

“James,” Madeleine yells from the doorway, scaring him into motion.

He has the good sense to rip the plug out of the wall and shove the microwave off the counter to keep the cupboards from catching on fire while Madeleine finds the fire blanket and comes running back from the living room to toss it over the mangled, burning wreck of the microwave. James pats it onto the back of the box while she cuts the air supply off from the sides and the burning lump of metal goes out with a thick swirl of smoke that has them both coughing miserably.

James manages to throw the window open as the smoke alarm starts screaming. Madeleine collapses against the refridgerator with her hands in her hair while he bats the alarm off the ceiling to quiet it.

“What happened?” she asks feebly.

“Nothing.” James lets himself slide onto the floor and lean into the dishwasher. “I just put the leftover pancakes in.”

“Did you take the fork off the plate?”

“No...”

“Christ.” Her mouth hangs open for a moment more as if to add something, but the only sound that comes from her is a giggle: a burst of laughter that startles a hesitantly lurking cat out of the doorway. “You’ve never used a microwave, have you?” she asks, wiping away tears as she dissolves into a coughing fit. Madeleine croaks, “You could’ve gotten us killed, you know,” though she’s still laughing and James is starting to think the situation isn’t that bad, despite the charred microwave on their kitchen floor.

“Good thing you insisted on keeping a fire blanket handy after the incident with Q’s lipstick lighter prototype.”

“Oh god, what are we going to tell him? He loves that microwave.”

“Can’t we just buy a new one?”

“James, the floor is _burnt_ ,” Madeleine says, “Not to mention Q has modified that thing for a whole week.”

“Of course he bloody has.” He drops his head into his hands in resignation. “I suppose I’ll be sleeping on the sofa for the next few days, then.”

“Perhaps the armchair, if you don’t want to be mauled by Curie.”

“Oh, Lord. Can I just sneak off to the Ritz?”

* * *

 

The new microwave arrives on a rainy Friday night. Q comes home soaked carrying a soggy cardboard box and James is on his feet in an instant to take it from him, Madeleine watching on with Tesla in her arms. Q passes the box off and Madeleine breathes out a sigh of relief at the accepted peace offering.

All week long James has taken them out for dinner, picking Q up straight from work, and every morning he has insisted on making breakfast to spare Q the sight of the charred floor. Madeleine has to agree it looks like a crime scene with indentations from where the microwave slammed into the floor and a burned outline of a disposed body.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Q says once he’s out of his coat and still dripping water on the floor. He looks exhausted, once again burying national secrets in his brilliant brain, and Madeleine wants to bundle him into bed and sleep.

“I’ll bring you a towel,” she says and lets the cat go.

She slips it through the bathroom door and glances at Q through the mirror. He’s shampooing his hair on the floor, already half asleep. James, on the other hand, she finds cluelessly standing in the kitchen. He’s peeled the microwave out of the box and left it on the counter with its cords and manuals.

“He’ll sort it out. Don’t worry,” Madeleine says reassuringly and moves to make Q a cup of honey and cinnamon milk.

James opens his mouth to say something and closes it again without a word. He shoves the wet cardboard slivers of the microwave box into the trash and says: “It’s _red_.”

Madeleine sighs. “Yes, James, it is red. Q likes colours, remember?”

“It’s also a different brand and model. Look at the door, it opens _down_. And there isn’t even a turning table. I hate the thought that he’s bought a microwave he doesn’t want because of me.”

“He wouldn’t.”

They lapse into silence, Madeleine stirring the milk. The shower turns off in the other room and Madeleine notes the way James subtly tries to watch the door for Q to emerge. When he does, he slips back into the foyer with the cats at his feet and James turns to her.

“I don’t know what to say to him anymore.”

“Sometimes one more ‘sorry’ is all it takes.” She presses the warm mug of honey milk into his hands with a smile and slips out of the kitchen.

Q returns with a towel draped around his waist, two cats in tow, walking past James without a word. He tacks a chart to the cupboard above the microwave. James spies the words ‘ _Microwaving Instructions_ ’ at the top of it and sighs.

“Q,” he says and waits until her has the younger man’s attention, “I’m sorry for breaking your microwave. Honestly.” James proffers the honey milk and holds his breath under Q’s stare.

Eventually Q sighs and James sees the stress drain from his body. “Alright, apology accepted.” He steps over the charred spot on the floor to take the mug and brush a brief kiss on James’s cheek. “Out of all of my things you’ve destroyed, this was probably the most innocent mistake.”

Q takes a drink of his milk and James brushes his hair out of his face. “You’ve got milk whiskers,” he points out.

“I know,” Q says, “I’ve also got a spy boyfriend who almost burnt our flat down because he doesn’t know how to use a microwave.” He flashes a smile and licks the milk off the top of his lips. “I’m going to bed. Feed the cats, will you. Oh, and put this up tomorrow, please.” Q presses a brand new fire blanket into his arms and deposits the mug in the sink.

James watches him go, clutching the fire blanket to his chest. He looks down at the cats and asks, “Duck pate, huh?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at obfuscatress.tumblr.com in case you want to come scream at me about these idiots.


End file.
